by Megan Goldin
I had to fight him off. While I wriggled away, I accidentally turned on the windshield wipers. The wipers distracted him enough that I was able to get out of the car. He apologized profusely through the open window. I was in tears. He looked terrified. He promised he’d take me home. I refused to get back in the car. This went on for a while. Me crying. Him promising he wouldn’t lay a finger on me. Begging me to get back in the car. By then he was scared and worried about my mom finding out what he’d tried to pull.
Eventually, I agreed to sit in the back. That’s how I arrived home from the big date with the hottest guy in school—sitting in the back seat of his car. Him in front, driving me like a chauffeur.
Until recently, I never thought of it as a sexual assault. I chalked it up to a clumsy teenage date gone wrong. Now I know that, if things with that boy had gone further out of control, I might have been a rape victim. I might have been a K. And the more that I learn about what a rape victim goes through when her accuser is prosecuted, the more I admire the courage of these survivors. Because, believe me, they are put through the wringer.
I haven’t personally met K. She was in court to hear Mitch Alkins, the prosecutor, open his case. Her parents and a social worker supported her. She seemed fragile. Broken.
As you already know, I can’t tell you her name as I won’t reveal the name of a sexual assault victim on this podcast. What I can tell you is that she is—or rather was—a happy, well-adjusted sixteen-year-old girl before last October. She had friends, worked hard at school, and sure, she partied as well. Why does a girl have to apologize for having fun?
The more that I learn what being a victim in a rape case entails, the more I understand how much courage K has shown in choosing to take this torturous journey.
For one thing, she had to endure a rape kit. I went to the local hospital to find out what happens when a rape kit is done. It’s a process that can take hours. The victim is treated like a human crime scene. Except the evidence that needs to be collected is on, or in, the victim. It’s embarrassing, invasive, and humiliating. Some experts say it perpetuates the sense of trauma, the helplessness that rape victims feel. Some victims say that a rape kit examination can be as traumatic as the rape itself.
A nurse or doctor goes over every square inch of skin, photographs every abrasion and bruise. It involves having pubic hair combed through and taken for comparison purposes. It involves being photographed internally and externally. And those photos become evidence for a whole lot of other strangers to pore over.
The thing is, while rape kits are used to collect the evidence of an alleged sexual assault, such as the perpetrator’s semen and pubic hairs, they rarely provide incontrovertible proof of consent. In the case of stranger rape, it’s not really an issue during the trial. It’s kind of a given that a victim didn’t consent to sex with a violent stranger.
In a case like the one in Neapolis, where the alleged victim knew the alleged perpetrator—I guess for want of a better word you could call it a date-rape case—it usually doesn’t meet the “beyond a reasonable doubt” evidentiary threshold just to show there was sexual intercourse. The prosecution needs to prove that the victim did not consent. That’s tough when it’s “his” word against “her” word.
Over the past few days in court, two charismatic criminal lawyers have lined up in a sort of courtroom duel. For the prosecution, Mitchell Alkins. Intimidating, filled with wrath. For the defense, Dale Quinn. Boyishly handsome. Charming. Born with a silver tongue.
Scott Blair, the defendant, has been there, too, listening to the prosecution’s case against him. He is tense. Nervous. What happens in that courtroom over the coming days will determine the course of his life, and his liberty.
The jury solemnly files into court each day. Those twelve ordinary folk will decide whether Scott Blair goes free or goes to jail. That’s how the criminal justice system works. Guilty or not guilty. His word, against her word. You’ll decide at home. But it’s the jury’s decision that will count.
I’m Rachel Krall and this is Guilty or Not Guilty, the podcast that puts you in the jury box.
31
Rachel
Mitch Alkins looked downright annoyed when the jury stumbled into court yawning after the lunch recess. Their eyelids heavy, they slouched in their seats as if settling in for an afternoon nap. Alkins was bringing his forensic expert to the stand. He needed a jury that was alert, not dozing after a heavy meal.
“I hope you all had a good lunch?” Judge Shaw bantered with the jury.
“They gave us fried chicken and corn bread with slaw and all that good stuff,” said the jury foreman, smacking his lips. Laughter erupted.
“Good to hear my staff is pulling out all the stops,” said Judge Shaw, his blue eyes for once twinkling in amusement. Mitch Alkins was the only person in court who did not smile.
Dr. Wendy North was a petite woman in her early fifties. Rachel recognized her from the hotel. Just that morning she’d seen Dr. North eating breakfast at a window table at the hotel cafe.
Dr. North had a natural poise and melodic voice that Rachel thought would endear her to the jury. That is, if they managed to stay awake for her testimony.
Unfortunately for Alkins, Rachel noted, the fried chicken did its work as he moved through his preliminary questions about Dr. North’s experience and credentials. One of the jurors yawned. Another followed. Soon the yawning was like a virus spreading through the jury box. Their chairs creaked. They sighed restlessly. They yawned some more.
“Your Honor,” said Dale Quinn, during a pause while Dr. North took a sip of water, “to save time and reduce the burden on the jury, the defense is willing to acknowledge that Dr. North is a highly qualified forensic expert witness. We are further willing to acknowledge that the defendant had sexual intercourse with the complainant. We’ve already said as much.”
“That’s very thoughtful, Mr. Quinn.” Judge Shaw’s sarcasm stung. “That point could have been made half an hour ago. I suspect Mr. Alkins may have additional questions for his witness, since she went to the trouble of traveling across the country to get here.”
“As it happens, I do, Your Honor,” Alkins said, turning to the witness. “Dr. North, were you able to confirm that Miss Moore had sexual relations with the defendant, Mr. Blair?”
“Yes,” she said. “Semen traces collected during Kelly Moore’s rape kit matched Scott Blair’s DNA, taken from a swab of his cheek. It was a one in a hundred million match. We also found pubic hairs belonging to the defendant and traces of his saliva on her body. They all matched the defendant’s DNA.”
“So we know that the defendant had sexual intercourse with Kelly Moore,” Alkins stated. “In your expert opinion, does the evidence show whether Kelly Moore consented to the sexual intercourse?”
Dr. North leaned into the microphone to answer. “It’s my opinion after a close study of the forensic evidence that she did not consent,” she responded. “That she was sexually assaulted. Raped.”
She rose from her seat and approached an easel brought out by Alkins’s staff. The jury perked up when they saw the visual exhibit. Anything to break the monotony. On the easel was a chart with a black outline of a female body. Dr. North had placed red circles in various areas within the outline of the body.
“We found bruising, here, here, and here,” said Dr. North, pointing at each circle on the diagram to indicate the various locations. “We also found vaginal bruising in the external genitalia and intra-vaginal lacerations. They all indicate nonconsensual intercourse.”
“Just to clarify again, you’re saying that all these bruises and abrasions documented during Kelly Moore’s rape kit show that Scott Blair raped Kelly Moore?” Alkins asked.
“Miss Moore’s injuries are the types of injuries commonly sustained by rape victims. Let me show you another example.” Dr. North removed the diagram to reveal another board underneath that showed a blown-up photograph of an ugly bruise on Kelly Moore’s thigh.
Dr. North handed photos to the jurors and the judge that showed bruising to Kelly Moore’s genitals and internal injuries. The photos were taken using a blue stain that highlighted bruises on a cellular level, invisible to the naked eye. The jurors flinched as they saw the photos for the first time.
“The bruises on the posterior fourchette and labia minor are common injuries from rape,” Dr. West said. “Those injuries, along with the bruising on the shoulders and thighs, further indicate that Miss Moore tried to resist the sexual intercourse. By virtue of the fact that she was resisting, she could not therefore have consented,” she added.
Dale Quinn rose for his cross-examination when Alkins was done. His expert witness, Professor Carl Braun, was sitting behind him, taking notes as Dr. North testified. In the meantime, Quinn managed to elicit Dr. North’s admission that she could not be absolutely certain that Kelly Moore did not consent.
“It’s an opinion,” she conceded eventually. “Based on years of work in this field.”
Rachel tried to catch up to Dr. North after court recessed for the day, but she got stuck in the back of the crowd leaving the courtroom. By the time she came down the stairs onto the plaza, Dr. North had gone.
That evening, Rachel set up her laptop in the lobby cafe at a table near the birdcage. She found her hotel room claustrophobic and, if truth be told, she was hoping to catch Dr. North before she left town. While she waited, Rachel typed a transcript of that day’s court testimony for the website and ate a hamburger and fries from the hotel cafe.
“I thought you said this bird sings?” Rachel’s concentration was broken by the loud voice of a man. She looked up to see a man with white hair and a green polo shirt who was on the way to dinner with his wife who’d dressed up for the occasion. He had stopped at the birdcage and was tapping it with his palm. “Haven’t heard a peep out of this bird since we’ve been here. Not a peep,” he said. “I think it’s stuffed. What the heck kind of a songbird doesn’t sing?”
“I don’t think the poor bird wants to sing, hon,” said his wife.
“Rubbish. Nightingales are supposed to sing,” the man said, clicking his fingers to get the bird’s attention.
“Maybe some nightingales don’t want to sing on demand, Keith,” the wife muttered, almost to herself.
Rachel spotted Dr. North sitting at a table near the window, sipping a glass of white wine. Rachel walked over to Dr. North’s table, where she introduced herself.
“I was wondering if I could ask you something,” she said.
“As long as it’s got nothing to do with the trial,” said Dr. North. “There’s still a chance I could be recalled to the stand.”
“I promise,” said Rachel. She opened her leather satchel and removed the photographs that Stuart had given her.
“These were taken of a young girl who drowned several decades ago. I was wondering whether you can take a look. I’m interested in hearing your views about whether her injuries appear to be consistent with drowning.”
Dr. North picked up the photographs and went through them one by one. Squinting at some. Pausing at others. Setting some aside. When she was done, she laid out the photographs on the table in front of Rachel.
“This girl may well have drowned,” she said. “But something terrible happened to her in the hours before her death.”
“How do you know?” asked Rachel.
“The bruises visible in the photographs would have happened within a few hours before her death. Not right before her death, and certainly not at the time of death. The bruises on her upper legs are similar to the ones I mentioned today in court which we saw on Kelly Moore’s thighs. This bruise is the size of a large hand. Most likely male. It’s going around the deceased’s shoulder, which indicates that she might have been physically restrained. Perhaps pinned to the ground,” she said, pointing to a close-up photo of Jenny’s naked shoulder.
“Could you hazard a guess as to what might have happened to this girl before she drowned?”
“I think that she was physically assaulted in the hours before her death,” said Dr. North. “Why are you asking me? Surely that all came out in the autopsy and subsequent police investigation into her death.”
“There was no police investigation, from what I can tell, and I’m not sure that an autopsy was performed,” said Rachel.
Dr. North looked shocked. “This girl met with extreme violence before her death. Why on earth would the police not investigate a death this suspicious? I’ve never heard of such a thing in all the years I’ve worked in forensic medicine.”
32
Rachel
Kelly Moore’s mother conducted herself with enormous grace on the stand as she answered Mitch Alkins’s questions about what happened when her daughter finally turned up after taking the bus home from the beach that day.
She told the court that when Kelly arrived home, there was a police car in the driveway and detectives in the living room, setting up a task force to search for Kelly. Nobody noticed when Kelly came through the back sliding door and took the stairs to her bedroom. It was only when her mother went upstairs to use the restroom and saw Kelly’s bedroom door was shut that she knew Kelly was home.
Christine tried to open the door, but it was locked. Kelly wouldn’t let her in. She sat on her bedroom carpet with her back to the door, barricading herself inside for hours. In a quivering voice, Kelly’s mother described to the court how when it started getting dark, Kelly quietly unlocked her bedroom door and allowed her mother to come in. They sat on Kelly’s bed and she told her mother what had happened with Scott Blair down at the beach. Christine Moore convinced Kelly to go with her to the hospital. She blinked back tears as she drove, determined to be strong for her daughter. They returned home early the following morning. Kelly had to leave the hospital wearing a borrowed sweatsuit taken from a hospital charity bin, as her clothes were kept as evidence. Her rape kit examination had taken five hours.
The jury was deeply affected by Christine Moore’s testimony. Dale Quinn took jabs in cross-examination, but they were delicate jabs, like a reluctant boxer afraid of drawing blood.
Quinn kept pressing the same point with his questions. He established that Kelly’s mom wasn’t at the beach that night and that she, like everyone else, relied on her daughter’s word about what had happened. He also managed to get her to admit that Kelly had not always been truthful in the past, and that Kelly had lied in the note that she’d left in the kitchen saying that Lexi’s parents would be home the night of the party.
* * *
Rachel bolted out of court quickly after the morning session to move her car. Court had gone later than expected and she’d exceeded the parking limit by twenty minutes. She had a moment of panic when she saw a white parking ticket flapping on her windshield as she turned the corner into the street where her car was parked.
As Rachel came closer, though, she realized it wasn’t a ticket. It was another note from Hannah. Rachel read it leaning against her car door. When she was done, instead of feeding the meter and returning to court, she climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away.
As she drove, she called Pete for their daily catch-up. He sounded strained when he answered the phone. He’d returned home from the hospital a day earlier and was still adjusting to the lower doses of pain meds.
“What’s wrong, Pete?” Rachel asked. “You sound upset. Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m going over social media comments. It’s not exactly pretty,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never seen such a divisive reaction. Some listeners have gone ballistic at you. They think you’re blaming the victim and that you’re taking it too easy on Scott Blair. Others are
accusing you of being biased in favor of Kelly. They’re accusing you of hanging Scott out to dry.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Rachel. “I have to show both sides of the story. Isn’t that the point? To be objective?”
“Objectivity is so last century. Didn’t you get the memo?” said Pete. “These days everybody has an opinion. Whether they know what they’re talking about, or not. Usually it’s the latter. Right now their invective is directed at you, Rach.”
“That sounds a bit extreme.”
“You didn’t spend two hours trawling through messages today,” Pete said. “It was horrible stuff. None of the social niceties apply online. People will say things they would never in a million years say to someone’s face.”
“Read me some of the comments. I’m a big girl. I can take it,” said Rachel as she turned onto the coastal road.
“Not a chance,” said Pete. “Some of the messages have so many expletives that I’d have to wash out my mouth if I read them. You’re better off not knowing, Rach. Trust me, you really are.”
“So what do I do about it?” Rachel asked.
“Nothing,” said Pete. “You’re doing great. You’re stirring the pot. Like you wanted. You’re making people think and talk about rape. Keep doing what you’re doing. This kind of response is exactly what we were looking for,” he said. “Plus, controversy is great for publicity.”
Rachel winced. She hated the idea that anyone might think that she was deliberately courting controversy by choosing a rape trial for her new season. She finished the call with Pete just as she pulled up at the single-lane Old Mill Road bridge, where she had to wait for a truck to cross before she could drive over. After a hair-bend turn, she drove uphill until, through the gaps in the trees on the roadside, she saw stone-colored town houses blending into the landscape of a ridge. Rachel was sure the Stills house had been on that ridge. It closely fitted Hannah’s descriptions in her letters.
